


we've got time to start again

by orphan_account



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2123304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i swear it won't take long</p>
            </blockquote>





	we've got time to start again

_“You don’t respect me.”_

The argument was long finished, yet the hurt on Wrench’s face as he signed those words lingered in Numbers’ mind, persistent and unyielding. The image of it was wedged into Numbers’ brain while they shoved Lester in the trunk, as they exchanged blows at the bar, even as they worked the coward over in the holding cell. Usually, being on the job was enough to clear Numbers’ head of everything but the task at hand, but this stuck with him like gum on his shoe. He couldn’t scrape it off for the life of him.

He had tried to hold it in, push it back and save it for later when they were back in their cabin (or, even more preferably, back home), but before he could stop himself his hands moved. _“You’re wrong.”_

Wrench shifted in the driver’s seat, confusion contorting his face. His partner hadn’t said much past the necessities as they waited for Fargo’s inside guy from the police station, and he had no idea what the hell he was referring to. _“What?”_

_“You were wrong. I do respect you.”_

Wrench deflated, his expression falling into something that was almost disappointment, and he looked away. Even when they argued, Wrench never turned his eyes from him; he had been on the receiving end of that kind of stonewalling all his life, and from Numbers more times than he could count. Such a small, seemingly harmless action had the potential to sow an entire harvest’s worth of damage.

But he looked away, leaving Numbers to reap the rotten bounty anyway.

Numbers nodded, took in the feeling of being on the other side of the scenario he so often put Wrench in. Shit, just how many times had he done this over the years? He mentally rifled through dozens of prior arguments, yet every one that replayed included him refusing to look at Wrench or even going so far as to turn his back, like he had today. The weight of it began to dawn on him, of how long the sting of every slight must have built up inside Wrench before the pot boiled over and his hands finally said their piece.

He reached for Wrench, faltered halfway then tried again, this time making contact with his shoulder before he could think better of it.

Wrench’s whole body stiffened, turned to stone at his touch. They made a point out of not touching each other while working, and this breach was unwelcome. Numbers took the hint and withdrew his arm, bringing it to rest in his lap.

When Wrench finally turned to face him he looked miserable yet determined, as if he had been called to fight in a battle with no hope of victory. _“How do you ever respect me?”_

He might as well have punched him in face. Numbers didn’t have any semblance of a reply waiting like he usually did, and his hands faltered several times before failing him completely.

 _“No, seriously, how do you respect me? How?”_ he demanded. His eyes burned with a deep, genuine and fiery anger that he rarely displayed, let alone felt. _“By withholding information? By shutting me out when I have to rely on you, when I want to talk to you? Please. Please tell me how much you respect me,”_ he swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, and his lip followed suit with a quiver in betrayal of his angry expression. _“You don't. You don't respect me, and if you do you have a strange way of showing it.”_

Well, fuck. There it was. Or, there _most_ of it was—there was no doubt that this was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ Numbers started, yet his reply was immediately cut off by Wrench’s half-chuckle of a scoff.

 _“Forget it,”_ Wrench signed with uncharacteristic sloppiness, as if he was drained of all his energy. _“I’m not doing this with you,”_ he threw back at him, though he immediately regretted the pettiness of that statement when he saw the hurt that the words etched into Numbers’ face.

 _“I’ll make this up to you,”_ Numbers promised with a hint of desperation, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes shining earnestly. _“We’ve got time.”_

 _“No, we don't. Not now,”_ Wrench said. And they didn't: their guy had just pulled up.

Numbers breathed deeply, stilled his hands and willed his demeanor to shift into as close to “professional” as he could manage in that moment.

Even though Wrench sighed and steeled himself as he glanced out the side mirror at the approaching man, he was already preparing his arguments for a fight that would, ultimately, never come.


End file.
